


Kaleidoscope

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [33]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Being Bad At Quoting Poetry To Your Not Boyfriend, M/M, Making Up, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Ivan's eyes are such a pale blue-grey that they seem to pick up any color around them-- in the multicolored lights of the club, they're fascinating to watch.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan/Ihab Rahal
Series: Tender Mercies [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place two days post-[Cruelty as a Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302690) but you don't really have to read it first

August, 2019 -- VR, Italia.

He’s been drunk for two days. 

Ihab had said-- well, he can’t (doesn't want to) remember. He remembers it had pissed him off, twisted in his gut like a knife, remembers rolling out of the bed and pulling his pants on quietly while Ihab had stalked off to the shower in silence, fuming. He doesn’t remember saying anything at all, and he probably hadn’t, just walked out of there like he had so many times before, like he will again. 

He’d gone straight to the bar. Tumbled right into someone else’s bed, after… well, he can’t remember. He’d woken up with a splitting hangover in a stranger’s apartment, went back to his place to shower, and started drinking again. Wash, rinse, repeat. The club music here is too loud to really talk over, the floors sticky with spilled drinks and sweat, and he’d picked up molly somewhere. Bettino is pretty sure he’s sweating glitter, for some reason. He can’t remember. 

There’s a woman. He’s dancing with her. They’re kissing. Her hands are small, and soft. Too soft-- no buffed out calluses, no bite of nail. He takes a breath and she’s gone, he feels like he blinks and in her place is Ihab, clad in his usual, expensive black, eyes lit up in all the stupid colors of the too-bright lights. They swirl on his skin, and Bettino reaches out to trace the edges of the patterns. Ihab catches his wrists, drags him close. It looks like the darkness around him swallows all light and movement, not even bothering to pretend to dance and blend among the revelers. Bettino throws an arm around his shoulder and laughs, clumsily leaning up and kissing his jaw with enough force to bruise his own mouth. 

Ihab has to raise his voice to be heard even this close, tilting his face to put his mouth to Bettino’s ear. “How drunk are you?” 

The irritation plain on the other man’s face makes him laugh again. He shrugs one shoulder. “Pretty fucking.” 

Ihab rolls his eyes and drags him to the restroom, shoving the bouncer that comes to tell them ‘one at a time’ with a low snarl that makes the man recoil. Bettino palms the man a 100 bill, gives him a finger gun and a wink, and then the music fades a little into the background as the door shuts behind them. He blinks at the difference in light and sound, the dim colors washed into harsh fluorescent, how now he can actually hear his heart racing in his chest. He’s sweating. 

His ass hits the edge of the counter, Ihab shoving him away and then crowding back into his space. Those pale eyes are nearly white now, and his jaw is clenched, irritation creeping around just under the surface. Bettino wants to poke at him until he blows, and then he wants them to shred each other until they’re bleeding all over the floor, and-- 

“Are you still mad at me?” 

The question throws him off. In all likelihood it’s meant to sound bland, disinterested, perhaps mildly irritated at the most. He’s not sure what he actually gets from it, just a little bit too drunk to turn it over in his head and look at it in conjunction with the other little details: the serious expression, pinched brows, one of Ihab’s hands settled on his hip, the other loosely grasping his elbow. Is he so drunk that he needs the support? He thinks he might be.

“I wasn’t mad.” 

At least, he doesn’t remember being mad anymore. He doesn’t remember anything except being tired. Just -- really fucking tired. But he’s always tired, it never goes away. He’s tired now, he realizes, even as he wants to drag Ihab close and do terrible things to and with him. Bettino reaches up to pull him into a kiss, but Ihab catches his hand. 

“Why do you do this shit?” His voice-- yes, he’s definitely irritated. The flat line of his mouth spells trouble, he hasn’t even bothered to put on a mask. Bettino opens his mouth to ask him what he means, and Ivan interrupts him by dragging him forward again only to shove him once more against the sink. The small of his back smarts. Bettino wants him to do it again. “Tell me why.”

The demand only makes him laugh. He leans back until the back of his skull hits the mirror, cracking every bone in his spine, and then sits up again and throws his arms around Ihab’s shoulders, and he kisses him. Ihab bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and Bettino’s mouth drops open even as he draws away and open hand slaps Ihab’s cheek. Outrage and lust go to war on his face and another laugh bubbles out of him, blood running hot down his chin. 

Ihab’s feverish touch usually feels so good painting trails of heat on the cool, blank canvass of his skin. But he’s burning alive today, from the inside out, and it just sinks hooks into his joints and turns him into a puppet on a string. A creature of habit. Hands here, mouth there, how best to drive Ihab wild.

But he doesn’t have the ability to keep his mouth shut. He’s pretty sure Ihab was asking why he punishes him by fucking off for days at a time, turning off his phone, making him crawl back with his tail between his legs, lesson learned. He doesn’t know the answer to that question, though, so he answers a different one, with his fingers digging into Ihab’s sharp jaw, Ihab’s hands clenched tight on Bettino’s thighs. The words fall out of him like hot stones.

“I drink to life, Rahal.” Bettino pulls him closer, until his lips leave a bloody smear on his cheekbone, and settles next to his ear, gaze fixed on the tiny window with the frosted glass over his shoulder. “I drink to our loneliness together. I drink to your dead-cold eyes, and to the hard realities.” His hands fall to Ihab’s belt, and he pulls him into place between his legs, fingers brushing the tender skin of his belly just under his shirt. “I drink because the world is brutal, and I’m tired, and because God won’t save us.”

Bettino can’t see the expression on his face, can only feel the absolute stillness of his body as the seconds tick by. It feels like hours pass. His chin is settled on Ihab’s shoulder, hands just resting at his belt, and Ihab’s hands are settled on either side of his spine. Holding him still. Holding him up. Regret starts to pull his brow down, and then Ihab’s shoulders start to shake-- he’s laughing, silently. 

“You _are_ pretty fucking drunk.” Though Bettino will die before admitting it, a pout pulls at his lips. He starts to pull away, but Ihab speaks again, his voice velvet-soft in his ear. “You drink to death.” His fingers curl possessively at the nape of his neck. “To me.” Something cold settles in his gut at the hollow truth of it, but then he realizes--

“... Did you say that while you were looking at yourself in the mirror?” Another bark of laughter escapes him, and he turns his face into Ihab’s neck to try and muffle it. Ihab’s eye roll is felt rather than seen, severe enough that the younger man's entire body leans back with it. Bettino imagines he’s eyeing the ceiling and pretending not to plead for strength from a higher power, which makes him laugh a little harder, his teeth bare against the thin skin over the tendons of his neck. He nips at him. Ihab’s grip tightens. 

“You’re insufferable,” he says, as Bettino slides from the counter and pushes him up against the opposite wall. One of Bettino’s hands settles at the base of his throat, just under where his teeth continue to worry at the skin, and the other trails down his chest, settles over the front of his pants, and he almost absently rubs two knuckles over the growing bulge there. 

“You seem to suffer me well enough, pretty boy.”


End file.
